"But years have passed, and the laughter has softened, The seasons feel strange—has it all come to an end? Yet in the stillness, the memories remain; This nostalgic feeling makes me expect in vain."
We used to feel the gentle breeze of the Christmas season,
September first, the day of its reckoning beacon.
We sang to neighbors with joyful Christmas carols,
Exchanging gifts around decorative, vivid parols.
Families and friends gathered for our celebrations,
We laughed and played in games—a genuine elation.
We feasted on delights, sharing our stories,
Embracing each moment the warmth of memories.
But years have passed, and the laughter has softened,
The seasons feel strange—has it all come to an end?
Yet in the stillness, the memories remain;
This nostalgic feeling makes me expect in vain.
Perhaps what Charles Dickens said was valid,
Indeed, "Marley was dead, to begin with."
The Ber months—deplorably rotting without pause,
Turning into ghosts of what it once was.
Christmas now feels less special, as we dream
Of something more tangible to redeem.
It's not the gifts or the carols we miss,
But the essence of togetherness wrapped in bliss.
Perhaps we are all Marleys in our own idiosyncrasy,
As Christmas never grows stale—it's merely a fallacy,
Borne from fleeting ages and far-fetched standards;
For the essence of Christmas still lives in our hearts.
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